Gloat All You Want, Aunt B

I don't resent your daffodils, I envy them, and I'll have daffodils when yours are dead and gone.  You bragging about your daffodils in February gives me hope that one of these days, maybe in late March or more likely in early April, those cheerful yellow trumpets will be nodding in my front yard too.  At least I have cardinals.  Even if the *&%$# squirrel chewed the cord of the birdbath heater and now it's kaput.  That means not only do I have to buy a 40# bag of birdseed for nearly thirty bucks today, I need to get a new heater because the birdies depend on us having water for them.  It said in the newspaper on Sunday that February is the hardest month for birds to find food and water, so I'm paying attention to the feeders and birdbath.  Maybe I can find a heater with a metal mesh cord to foil the little gnaw-ers...

Today is Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras (throw me something, mister!) and I decided to clamber back into the "eating right" saddle starting yesterday so we'll be having fish tonight for supper even though Lent doesn't start until tomorrow, Ash Wednesday.  Hmm, maybe I can pile up 40 days of sticking to the food plan if I convince myself to "make a good Lent" like Grandma Angermeier used to say.  That means that you give up something that's hard to give up, like chocolate or cigarettes.  That's how Mom stopped smoking; she said she heard Grandma telling her to "make a good Lent, Maralee" so she did and she managed to quit.  Anyone who quits smoking gets a gold star in my books.  That is one bastard of a habit to break.  And that's not even talking about the addiction part of it.  I've been playing at dieting for the last, oh I don't know, year, so it's time to stop fooling myself into thinking I'm losing weight and buckle down to some serious work on it and Lent seems like a good time to do it.  Besides, what else do I have to do in February and March in the frozen middle of Wisconsin?

February 12--Claude Monet, Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies.  It was very still by the pond, so still that Jeanne heard the hummingbird's wings beat and its faint, pipping cry.  The sound of one of the turtles falling off its log was like a cymbal crash in the small green opening in the woods.  The air was heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and the sulfur of rotting vegetation.  She sat in the old canvas chair with her hands still in her lap wondering if she'd ever have energy again.  It had taken all she had to get herself to the cottage.  The drive along the interstate and then over the state highways and county roads had been a blur.  Only when she turned off onto the lane had she been aware of her surroundings, the close growing trees and bramble had made the lane into a green tunnel with a glimmer of sunlight at the far end when she came around the last curve.  Driving out into the clearing had nearly blinded her, awakening her to what she had done.  She had been thinking of leaving Leo for a while and she had finally done it, and in a decisive manner.  It would take her days to empty her crammed full SUV but she had all summer and fall to figure out what she would do for the rest of her life since she had been squirreling money into a secret account for years and she'd been siphoning off half her paychecks into the same account since they were married fifteen years ago.

Huh, I never would have believed it of her, would you?  She seemed like such a cream puff when I first imagined her and then I fell asleep after writing the first two sentences so the rest of it tumbled out just now.  I'm intrigued.  Au revoir, mes amis.
--Barbara